


Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

by Corycides



Series: Hands On [7]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georgia suits Tom's purposes for now, but his fantasies take him home again</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

 

'Why?' Julia demanded from behind him. 'Just tell me why, after all we went through to get here, you'd go _back_?'

Tom studied her in the mirror instead of turning to look at her. In her pale rose-print sun-dress, humidity limp hair sliding out of its pins, she looked like a wilting flower against the utilitarian furnishings of their temporary, government-issued lodgings. It galled him, one more reminder of his failings. His eyes flicked from her back to his own reflection – a gentlemen in a cafe au lait suit with a pimp's fat and shiny tie.

Polished. Respectable. Bought and paid for.

'I have to,' he said, untying the slippery ribbon of the tie with precise fingers.

'Why?' Julia said.

She stepped up behind him and put her hand on his shoulders, nails creasing the expensive fabric. Her breath was warm against his neck – suggestive, cozening.

'Haven't you done enough?' she said. 'They promised us sanctuary in return for information. You delivered. They can't make you go back now.'

'They aren't making me.'

Her hands tightened until the nails hurt, even through jacket and shirt. He could feel the tension in her wrists. She wanted to shake him, but she wouldn't. It wouldn't be lady-like, it would be a loss of control.

'Then why?'

He thought about telling her the truth, but she wouldn't understand. No. To be fair, she would understand, but it would give her the leverage she needed to change his mind. He didn't want that.

'Jason,' he said, using her one point of leverage. 'He is with Miles. If I go I can keep him safe, I can bring him home.'

The words were like stones in his throat. He loved his son – he remembered loving his son – but he hated that Julia loved him. Julia was the centre of Tom's world, but Jason was the centre of Julia's. It was, had always been, tenable only when the boy was gone. He could love him then, without feeling the boy soaking up Julia's love.

But it worked. Julia gave an inchoate sound and hugged him. 'Thank god, Tom. Oh, thank god.'

She fussed over, retying his tie, and then excused herself to go tea at someone's house. The matron's circle of influence had to be watered more here than in Monroe. It was the heat, Tom supposed. He waited until she was gone and took his tie back off, jerking it loose from his collar.

The bitch's leash.

He threw it on the bed and stripped off the gigolo’s suit she had dressed him it. The hot, wet heat of the place meant he was already sweating, his skin damp with sweat. His reflection stared back at him, all hard edges and striations of ridged pink and white scars. Wounds earned honourably in service to the Monroe Republic, scars of a warrior. And now what was he? A boot-lick to Georgia's whore of a president.

The thought of her sugary poison promises, her painted, lop-sided mouth stating the words with vicious precision, made his gut clench and his balls tighten. He hesitated, feeling an itch of disloyalty at thinking of anyone but Julia, but it had been...weeks. Julia had not touched him since they left Philly. Before that. Not since the night he'd not been able to protect her.

Like so much he could lay the fault for that at Matheson's worn down boots. That and his dishonour, the loss of position, being forced to flee Philadelphia and come begging, cap in hand, to Foster. Anger curdled through him, hardening his cock.

Give him time. She had the upper hand for now, but she'd learn Tom Neville was no dog to keep chained on her porch. He didn't grovel.

Tom grabbed the tie from the bed and twisted it around his hand. He reached down and grabbed his cock, silk sliding over the sensitive skin. Sensation shuddered over his nerves like an itch. He watched in the mirror as his cock rose towards his belly, the end of the tie trailing golden down his thigh. The muscles in his thighs twitched and his fingers flexed, squeezing the hard length of flesh.

A ragged sigh escaped him as he thrust his hips forwards, his tangled hand dragging along his shaft. Silk kissed his balls and he groaned through tight teeth.

He'd have the bitch on her knees before this was over, begging him for his mercy...for him to find reason to stay his hand. His tongue flicked over his lips, a smile curling the corners at that image. All that hair twisted out of its pins, her suit ripped and stained with blood and filth. She wouldn't smell of rose-water and sweet wines then. The smell wouldn't cling to his clothes when she brushed his lapels straight, a spoor to remind Julia he was nothing but another woman's pet now. Not once he'd finished. She'd kneel on his leash. She'd crawl through Matheson's blood to beg his favour. Along with Matheson's other whores.

The Clayton woman. The cold, contemptuous bitch of a sister of his – who looked at Tom like he'd not seen her cowering in her own filth in the dark?

Leave _him_ alive to see or not, Tom wondered. He licked his lips again, balls and muscles clenching as jerked roughly at his cock. All that pretty bright blonde hair around his hand, sliding like sick over his cock. God. His legs wobbled and he locked his knees, grimacing as he felt the pulse of come against his fingers.

Matheson dead. Monroe seeing how Tom _laid low_ those who'd defied him, how Tom was better. They'd call him General Neville and then he'd kill him.

He closed his eyes, losing sight of himself. He came with a strangled shout, his throat clenching around the noise, and spilled come over his fingers and his nice clean tie. It dropped to the ground, unwinding from around his fingers. That would stain. It was ruined. Good.

Tom wiped his hand over his mouth, smelling the sex on it, and glanced at the bed. The Georgian uniform laid out like an accusation. A turncoat. Literally.

Not in his heart though. That was the truth he couldn't tell Julia – in his heart he was still a loyal servant of the Republic. It was only Matheson who'd ruined that, ruined him. So for now, he bow his head and wear his leash – although not that one, he kicked the tie under the bed – and play the good soldier.

Until he wasn't.


End file.
